Friday, April 17, 2015

The alarm is jarring like when I was married and the wife would pop a peaceful moment with a safety pin by asking, "What are you thinking about?" and I had to catch myself before I said "Elle McPherson".

It's like I'm a baby seal and the alarm is a hunter with a club.

The alarm going off some mornings frightens me. I slap at the clock while my heart beats with the rhythm of a Motorhead song. By the time I finally get the alarm off by dropping it into an industrial grinder, I'm halfway on the floor with my heart in my throat like an undigested piece of pork chop from supper the night before.

I am not a morning person.

When the sky is still dark then I should be staring at the inside of my eyelids, not at my bedroom ceiling wondering if that spot just moved.

I should not have to look at my clock until the first number is at least an 8. If I'm seeing a 6 or less my brain is still a soup of half-remembered dreams, lyrics from that song I heard at lunch time yesterday and the invention I came up with when I was 23 for a car whose glove box is refrigerated to hold a selection of cheeses and Italian luncheon meats.

Morning and I are not friends. I don't go to its birthday parties and it doesn't come to my poker night. When the clock strikes noon morning sneers one last look of contempt at me and I flip it the bird. We are in our neutral corners for the rest of the day.